The Ordinary
by HedwigBlack
Summary: "He's moved on. He's got on with his life." And Sherlock is beginning to appreciate the more ordinary things in life. Maybe.


**Season 3 fucked me up. Basically. Might continue this when I get the urge. Thoughts?**

* * *

"_He's moved on." _

Sherlock surveys the flat he will now occupy alone, Mycroft's words ringing in his ear.

"_He's got on with his life."_

_Yes_, he thinks to himself. _I suppose he has._

Mrs. Hudson busies herself with opening the windows to let the fresh air in and moving books around and clearing the stove to put the kettle on. Everything is just as he had left it only now it is covered in two years' worth of dust. A graveyard for his former life, a life he'd shared with John Watson.

He envisions John sitting in his chair with the morning paper or a cup of coffee. Or hunched over his laptop. Sherlock looks about the flat, taking notice of all the empty places that have always been reserved for John, the spaces where he's always fit into the chaos that is 221B.

But now John's moved on. It was foolish of Sherlock to thing he would still be around. He's always been a bit narcissistic – even Sherlock can admit his flaws to an extent- but to actually expect John to sit around pining for his annoying dick of a flatmate for years? No.

No, that's not John Watson. John needs action. Sitting stagnant is not his style and so now he's made another life for himself with a new partner and a sensible job and he's free to make terrible decisions regarding facial hair and it's all just so… _ordinary._ How _dull. _

And yet…

"Would you like biscuits, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asks, and he spies her giving him a sympathetic look out of the corner of his eye. "I know you don't normally eat much, but you really ought to- you're looking so thin these days."

"Yes," he responds, making a production of taking off his scarf. "I think I shall."

She turns to go into the kitchen and he remembers himself and says a hesitant _thank you_, ignoring the look of shock on her face as she realizes what he's just done.

He hears the clinking of tea cups and the scrape of chairs on the kitchen floor. He continues to study the room, familiarizing himself with the little details that made it home. John's old cane still sits in the corner, next to his violin. His fingers twitch with the urge to play something for old time's sake. He's missed the distraction of music when he's thinking. He reaches for the clasp, but then he sees something else.

Pieces of bone are scattered on the floor. Closer inspection confirms that it's the skull from the mantelpiece. The frontal bone is shattered, the parietal bones separated at the suture. The facial bits have been turned to powder and he thinks he might see a shoe print among the remains.

"Here you go, dear." Mrs. Hudson appears beside him with a cup of tea that he graciously takes. She acknowledges the cause of his distress with a nod.

"My skull," he says, attempting to keep his voice steady, and surprising himself at how terribly he fails.

"Had a bit of a run-in with the wall, if you know what I mean," Mrs. Hudson explains. "That man always did have a bit of a temper, didn't he?"

Sherlock clears his throat and doesn't respond, choosing to sip his tea instead.

Mrs. Hudson takes the hint, and goes to leave but not before having the last word, always a last word. "You should talk to him, Sherlock. He'll come around. You'll see. If you'd seen him after you…_ after_… you would know. He's never got over it, deep down, I think."

He keeps his back turned, unsure of how to respond, unsure of anything anymore.

She leaves with a murmured _oh, dear_ and he's relieved to finally have the flat to himself.

To himself.

That's how he always used to like it. With no one to comment on his habit of keeping body parts in the fridge, and no one to blog about his lack of social etiquette, and no one for Mycroft to bother about what his little brother is up to.

That's how he's lived his life the last two years- relying on no one but himself, taking on the rest of the world on his own, knowing that elsewhere he was a memory, perhaps even a legend, but nothing more. That elsewhere, other people, the only people in the world he's ever cared about, and the one person he's ever shared a life with, were going about their days. Going back to the dull, the boring, the _ordinariness_ that is "real life."

"_What life?"_ Sherlock had said. How could such a mundane existence be worth living?

And yet…


End file.
